Bury me alive (cause i won't give up without a fight)
by ibuzoo
Summary: She takes the applicator out of the gloss-lipstick and smears it on her lips in a thick paste, spreads it until they're reflecting shiny and lustre, "I'm not going anywhere. Why do you think all men paint themselves when they go to fight? This is war." And I'm ready.


**Bury me alive (cause i won't give up without a fight)**

**Prompt:** Writer's Choice - Betrayal

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Canon Divergence AU / Dark-Hermione

**Word count:** 1003

**Summary:** She takes the applicator out of the gloss-lipstick and smears it on her lips in a thick paste, spreads it until they're reflecting shiny and lustre, "I'm not going anywhere. Why do you think all men paint themselves when they go to fight? This is war."

_And I'm ready._

**A/N:** Here we go, the first one of the last 25 prompts and look how funny; we start with canon divergence and no modern AU - but a kinda dark(!)Hermione. Anyways I hope everyone will like it. A special thank you to my beta who offered to read over my works.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

Just because betrayals do not leave visible scars on your skin, it doesn't mean the scars do not exist.

**i.**

They meet in a shady alley, dark walls illuminated by the moon which casts shades of blue and black on their faces, the light refracts bright white on his thatch, gives his platinum hair a blueish shimmer. He seems uncertain, almost nervous and their fingers brush momentarily when she reaches out to hand him the yellowed parchment with dark blue ink stains on the margins.

"Are you sure about this?", his voice is deep, baritone and little strains of her hair bristle on her nape with each word that leaves his frost-chapped lips. A veil of silence draws itself over them and Hermione takes a deep breath, feels the cold draping over her lungs. She nods, sharp, then turns around and leaves.

_(somewhere in the distance the silent cry of a raven echoes trough the thickness of the night, reverberates between phantasmal trees and fallen leaves)_

**ii.**

"Where have you been?", Ron demands and she brushes her dark robe off her shoulders, downs it on an old burgundy chaise longue with golden adornments in the dark wood.

"I met with someone."

There's silence and Harry roosts like an eagle on the windowsill, eyes hawklike on the street before he turns his head, hedges, "So this 'someone' ", and he speaks the word like something that leaves a bad taste in his mouth, "Is he a friend?"

It's the paranoia from a life on the run that's speaking out of him, the thrill of adrenaline and the fear that creeps in Harry's mind that leaves nightmare after nightmare. Hermione picks up a book, an old emerald leather tome with sides in different shades from dark brown to bright yellow, burned edges and a silver buckle with an ancient stamped in seal - a snake winding around a wand - and she flips through it, page up until she stops at a flaming spell, one to burn the victim down alive. Her smile is a cruel one, hidden behind brown locks when she answers, whispers, "Not in the slightest."

**iii.**

Cormac McLaggen bolts in the moment she gives Draco the next parchment. Her fingers are still ink-stained but she doesn't hesitate a second, raises her wand, her voice calm and deadly "Incarcerous." Silver ropes spear out of the tip of her wand and they wind around Cormac's body, twisting his arms and legs until he lies immobile on the floor, his mouth covered with thick cords.

Draco curses annoyed and Hermione watches as slender fingers run through his whitish hair and backcombs stray strands which had been dangling in his front mere seconds before.

"Great. How are we supposed to explain this?"

She tilts her head and studies the different shades of blond in Cormac's hair, observes the way his eyes grow larger, the way the fear creeps in.

"We don't," she finally murmurs and draws her wand once more, rests the cold wood on the temple of golden locks, "Imperio."

**iv.**

A white raven sits on the windowsill that night and she caresses his plumage, watches as the moon mirrors in different shades of lavender and blue between ivory feathers. She feels the darkness creeping in the tips of her fingers, a sudden burn that spreads up to her hands and she watches the way dark dandelions draw themselves from her veins, reaching in dark ink over her hand.

She breathes and waits for dawn.

**v.**

_(there are no dandelions on her hand the next day, no marks of the darkness that already reach for her)_

**vi.**

"Where are you going?", an underlying tone of suspicion lies in Harry's voice and she ignores it outright, puts bright red lipstick on her lips and she loves the way they feel soft and smooth, almost like cotton-wool clouds. Harry crosses his arms and it's almost cute the way he worries for her, like a brother worries over his sister.

_(but Hermione knows he doesn't, knows he's afraid, terrified to die and she can sense it, she can smell it, she can feel it)_

She takes the applicator out of the gloss-lipstick and smears it on her lips in a thick paste, spreads it until they're reflecting shiny and lustre, "I'm not going anywhere. Why do you think all men paint themselves when they go to fight? This is war."

_And I'm ready._

**v.**

The locket feels searing hot and she puts it under her shirt, flattens it on her skin in the hollow between her breasts, the tiny fragment of flesh that pulsates in unison with her heartbeat.

She sends a message with their whereabouts and waits.

**vi.**

They come at night, an army of them, soldiers in dark capes with golden masks, invisible faces hidden behind ornamented metal. Malfoy Manor is their destination and she observes the way Draco creeps around Harry, watches the way Lucius and Narcissa are both a shadow of their former selves while Bellatrix dominates the room, swirls the wand around in her spideresque fingers until she presses the tip down on her arm, watches the dark mark light up in a bright forest green until it dies black again.

_He comes._

_He comes._

**vii.**

She feels the dark dandelions growing on her hands again as soon as he enters the room, their roots firmly buried in her veins, the seeds pulsating in her fingertips. There's a smirk on his face, cruel, maniac and her shackles fall from her wrists when he reaches for her, lifts her up to kiss red swollen lips, smudges red smears across her mouth, her cheeks, bites and sucks adamant, hungry, starving.

This is war.

_(her blood is throbbing rigid, unyielding and she feels the dandelions spread over her arms, over her back)_

She is ready.

**viii.**

Just because betrayals do not leave visible scars on your skin, it doesn't mean the scars do not exist.

The scars are still there.

But they'll heal.


End file.
